


Blindside

by exbex



Series: Eccentricities by Osmosis [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-29
Updated: 2012-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:17:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex





	Blindside

It happens completely by accident, without a hint of careful planning, unlike most things in Mycroft’s life.

He takes a short leave of absence from work three months after Sherlock returns. He has had a hand, however remote, in the toppling of a vast criminal network, and the British government deigns to recognize his work and allow him a respite.

Almost nothing escapes his notice, but apparently he isn’t entirely well, a fact that only slowly becomes clear as John Watson’s face swims into view one afternoon. Mycroft knits his eyebrows together and wants to ask why on Earth John is standing in the middle of his bedroom, what’s wrong, did something happen to Sherlock, but no words come.

“Sherlock’s on a case in Manchester, otherwise he’d be here as well.”

Mycroft’s expression must be confused, because John continues with his explanation. “Your driver, Charles is it? Came by the flat, seemed to be…worried.”

Something makes John go from tentative to determined, because he pulls back the covers. “Shower,” and Mycroft imagines that this is the tone he used in Afghanistan.

Mycroft is confused by his growth of facial hair. He had only just gone to bed a few hours ago.

“It’s been a week, Mycroft,” John says patiently, and Mycroft Holmes is not often bewildered, but there it is.

Later, after a shower and a shave and some kind of late lunch, John makes him go outside, for a walk of all things. It feels strange to be walking without a definite purpose or destination, and even stranger to listen to John making observations about the people on the street and in the park. It calls up a memory of a young Sherlock, tugging at Mycroft’s hand as he bounds ahead, and it makes Mycroft feel ridiculously maudlin.

“Call me tomorrow,” John says. “Doctor’s orders.”

Mycroft is not used to following orders, but he follows this one without question or hesitation.

**

There are phone calls and texts, but it’s weeks before Mycroft sees John again, because there are cases and government crises. 

“What’s this for?” John asks over what he probably sees as an overly extravagant dinner.

“It can’t be easy for you,” Mycroft replies, fiddling with his fork. There’s no need to explain further.

John doesn’t ask for clarification, just fiddles with his own fork. “Well, I suppose I’ve grown as a person.”

Mycroft is undressing later that night when Sherlock sends a text with a list of conversation topics that are apparently safe with John. Mycroft begins and deletes five sarcastic replies before giving up and going to bed.

After that, there are more meetings that are not really meetings, and Mycroft and John talk about things that are unrelated to cases and government and even things that are unrelated to the world’s only consulting detective.

**

It is almost a comfortable routine of sorts, until the night that Mycroft runs into James Milton, a man that he has silently dubbed The World’s Most Arrogant Prat and Insufferable User of Human Beings.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft sees John adopt a sort of military stance as James makes cracks about Mycroft’s weight, his umbrella, and everything that he can think of until John surprises them both by placing a firm hand in the small of Mycroft’s back and interrupting. 

“We should really be going, shouldn’t we, My?”

Mycroft, is, as a rule, rapid thinker, but he is still parsing the meaning of the shortening of his name, when John unexpectedly kisses him, softly yet possessively, and for whatever reason the only thought that cycles through Mycroft’s mind is that there is something distinctly appealing at the way that John is standing on the balls of his feet to reach him.

He doesn’t realize that John is still grasping his hand until they’re in the car and nearly to Baker Street.

John opens a text with his free hand as they pull up to 221. “Sherlock has a case, apparently,” he says, and Mycroft considers that perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised that a man who follows his brother into all manner of ridiculous danger is now holding his hand as if he’s done it thousands of times before. “Call me tomorrow,” John says.

Mycroft is not, as rule, rendered speechless, but it takes him several moments to respond. “I will be…sorry to have to drive away from you,” he says, and in fit of impulse, leans forward, and his kiss is not soft but also not possessive, and John returns it without hesitation.

John gives his hand a light squeeze. “Call me tomorrow,” he repeats. He’s out of the car, and gives one final glance and a grin before entering the doors of 221B.

“Shall I drive home, sir?” Charles is carefully trying to meet his eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Yes,” Mycroft replies, and looks down at the ring on his hand, twisting it slowly. Want has not stirred within him in a very long time, and Mycroft muses that John Watson couldn’t have hurt him more if he had taken a scalpel and opened him up.

At the same time, it may be the easiest checkmate he’s ever had to accept.


End file.
